


Post Mortem

by scorpionmother



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Death, F/M, Happy Ending, Heaven, Peace, Resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpionmother/pseuds/scorpionmother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My fix for the devastating end of Season 3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post Mortem

And after the perpetual darkness of death you step forth into the eternal light of forever. 

She couldn’t remember the face or the voice of the person who had told her that, or in fact if those words had ever been uttered other than in a dream, but she knew they were a bone deep truth and therefore she had to trust them. And in that moment, in that singular moment when darkness had all but consumed her but when held by love the end had come, she had not fought it, only welcomed it with every fibre of her soul and embraced the eternal light.

Later she realised that it was a sense of familiarity that had woken her and not the coldness of the rough ground she found herself lying on. A steel grey sky loomed above her, clouds torn like beggars’ coats scurried away as if to escape the bleakness, in search of a sun that seemed only like a memory. She stood quickly despite the stiffness in her legs and back, to gaze over a wild wilderness of stunted bushes and trees, tortured and twisted like victims, her feet lost in scrubby bracken and rough grasses. It was a lonely place, many might call it desolate and yet it chimed safety, it cried home. She knew that although she had no conscious memory of it, that she belonged here. She had a history in this place. There were memories here, memories that faltered on the very edge of consciousness, like errant children unwilling to reveal themselves, fearful of some consequence.

She could tell by the light that night was close and would fall quickly, and that she would need to find shelter. And then, as if the very earth had heard her, on the horizon a dwelling seemed to appear, although by its look it had endured many a year. A rude cottage, so organically entrenched in its environment that it appeared to have grown from its own need from the ground rather than have been built by human hands. Again, that feeling of familiarity reared up inside her although from where she could not remember, and she began to move towards the structure, her poorly shod feet stumbling over the uneven ground.

A twisted tree stump stood just beyond the rough wall that encircled the dwelling. The remains of what once must have been a mighty tree, savagely chopped down in its prime. And yet she felt no regret for its demise. Bile rose in her throat the closer she got, a feeling of dread creeping through her, teasing her lost memory with fragments of sights and sounds. The putrid hatred of a crowd, the acrid smell of smoke and pain, pain in a pair of bi-coloured eyes crashed through her almost bringing her to her knees and yet at the last moment, something saved her from falling to the ground. It was barely anything, just a whisper but it was there, nothing more than a feeling just as she skirted past it, a memory of utter love in a place of such anger and hatred, unspoken but actioned in the felling of that monument to bigotry and fear, yet despite this she was grateful to come to the low wall surrounding the house.

Again a wash of knowing flowed through her as soon as she placed a trembling hand onto the latch, and yet no concrete memory followed as she pushed the door open. The interior was small and dark, the scent of wood smoke and dried herbs filled the air. A small settle and a couple of chairs, old but well cared for were grouped around a fireplace conveniently laid. She was surprised at the lack of dust or dirt although it was clear that the cottage had been uninhabited for a long time. She drifted over the stone floor her feet, clad only in thin slippers, making no noise as she ran her fingers over the mass of wards and religious iconography that hung from the ceiling, relishing the feel of cool metal and smooth wood and bone against her finger tips, until she reached the stairs and climbed them to the upper storey. She noticed, through the small window above the bed covered with a faded patchwork quilt, that the sky was dark and without thinking she kicked off her shoes, laid on the bed and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

And so she lived simply in the cottage and the surrounding countryside, alone but not lonely. Collecting wood for her fire from the moor and the surrounding woods. Gathering herbs, roots and berries, setting traps to catch rabbits for the pot. It was a quiet life but for the first time that she could remember it felt like a good life. Every so often, usually as dusk fell over the moor and she settled herself down in a chair by the fire to smoke the seemingly never ending supply of cigarettes, she wondered about where she’d come from and why she never saw anyone but these thoughts were brief, and did not cause her pain or concern and her sleep was untroubled and generally dreamless. But when she did they were full of fractured, vivid images of a man. A tall powerful man achingly familiar and yet unknown. A man with the kindest of brown eyes that had seen the worst of horrors. A man with the mouth of a lover and the hands of a killer. A man with the soul of beast and the heart of an angel. A man marked with scars that crisscrossed his skin and his memory. A man with sins at his back and redemption before him. She woke from these dreams with a sense of longing and a sense of loss that she could not understand, a name that hung on her lips but evaded speech and the scent of leather, whiskey and gunpowder in the air. And always, after these dreams, the puckered flesh of the scar that marred her skin just under her left breast and which she could not remember the origin of, ached for a while.

Time seemed not to exist but she did not question it. Dawns followed dusks and yet nothing changed and nor did she. Her hair remained the same raven black, her blue eyes did not fade with age and neither did her skin crease. Sometimes she wondered if she’d become immortal but these were fleeting thoughts and disappeared almost as soon as they came and life continued for her on the moor, constant, calm, alone but happy.

She woke from a dream of the man into bright sun light streaming through the small window above the bed. She could not remember the last time she’d dreamed of him although she knew it had been the longest time and yet this dream had been so different. Others had contained only snatches of images, different times, different actions. But this one had a narrative, there was a continuation from beginning to end. At first she had not recognised it as him. The man she saw, like she’d been standing in the doorway of the room in which he sat, had aged. His hair still thick but frosted with silver hung round a face lined with the evidence of a hard life. Yet his eyes, those bright brown eyes, had not succumbed. There was still a youthfulness and hunger in them that belied the visage in which they resided. He sat in a large chair in a small room, his knees covered in a blanket. Although his body still showed the echo of a power, she could feel the stiffness in his joints and his bone weary tiredness. His hands were twisted, joints swollen with the onset of arthritis and they clutched at something, something obviously precious by the way he caressed at it. In her dream she’d moved forward to stand in front of him, to take a look and on looking down saw it was a book, a small black, leather bound volume embossed on the front with a small golden cross. She knew that it was a prayer book and then suddenly, without warning, for the first time in as long as she could remember she recognised it, it was her prayer book. In her dream she had felt both her body and mind reel with the shock of this knowledge and then those eyes, those brown eyes that had haunted her nights looked into her soul and his mouth opened to say a name.

The dream stayed with her throughout the day stealing the calm and tranquility that she had always felt since coming to the moor. She found herself stopping in her tasks, restless, looking constantly towards the horizon as if she expected to see something although never in her time there had she. But there was change in this changeless place, a sense of anticipation that gnawed at her peace making her long for something she could not put into words. Throughout the day this feeling became more and more prevalent so much so that by dusk, after she’d picked at her food she felt unable to sit by the fire as she was want to do. She needed to move, to be outside in the gathering dark to wait, although she knew not for what.

She stood at the gate looking over the barren wasteland that was her home, had been her home for as long as she could remember and to her eyes it was the most beautiful of places although for the first time she felt the sadness and loneliness in it, which had never before struck her. The sun, which had burnt so bright all day was finally giving into the night, its ball tinted orange as it painted the sky with streaks of colour and began to sink below the horizon. Suddenly, her mind for the first time, recalled her first night here and as if that was what it had been waiting for, a figure rose out of the undergrowth away from where she stood. She felt no surprise at its appearance or fear, it was as if she had been waiting for it although she didn’t realise. She knew instantly it was a man, tall, powerful and young. At first he seemed disorientated looking around, scanning the horizon and his surroundings but within seconds he stilled and although against the sun set he was nothing but a silhouette, she knew he’d seen her. Slowly he began to move towards her and as his pace quickened as he got used to the rough terrain she too also began to walk towards him a sense of urgency to see him clearly flooding through her. And there he was, the man of her dream made young again and his eyes, those brown eyes a mixture of confusion and joy at seeing her. Without thinking she raised her hand to lay it against the side of his face her finger tips caressing the coarse, soft hair that adorned his cheeks. He too raised his hand to tuck a stray piece of her hair behind her ear keeping his fingers there to wind into her hair and the familiarity of this gesture brought unbidden tears to her eyes.

“Where are we Vanessa?” his drawl so soft and full of wonder was to her the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard and as her hand found the back of his neck and she drew his face towards her lips, her mouth, just before they touched, formed one word.

“Home.”

The kiss was gentle, soft and full of wonder. It was a mixture of greeting and in some strange way an apology, an apology that need never be uttered but needed to be said.

They stood, each looking into the eyes of each other, the lovers, the wolf and the scorpion, the mother of evil and the hound of God finally together and finally at peace, and knew that this was their forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I did hate the ending of Season 3 and will admit to crying for about 40 mins after the end of the show - I'm not proud!! However, despite this I know that in fact it was the correct thing to do - this show was no fairy tale and we were never going to get a happily ever after regardless of what our fan girl/guy hearts wanted. So I have tried to give them that. To bring Ethan and Vanessa eventually together, in a private and personal heaven where they both, for a few short days, were at their happiest and now can be forever.
> 
> I bequeath this to all my fellow Penny Dreadful readers and writers and thank your for your kudos and comments on all of my other offerings.
> 
> I definitely have one more story in me but after that who knows.
> 
> I hope you enjoy x


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